


House Guest

by ameliacareful



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, The Cage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6109634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliacareful/pseuds/ameliacareful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Who are you?” Dean growls, “and where is Sam?”</p><p>            “Sam is sleeping and I’m an American god so don’t shoot.” He turns towards Dean and waves a copy of Busty Asian Beauties at him. “What’s with the yellow fever, dude?” He’s a good looking son of a bitch with dark hair in a short pony tail.</p><p>            “How did you get in?”</p><p>            “You’re not warded for me,” he says. “This place is pretty sweet.”</p><p>            Dean shoots him.</p><p>            “Fuck,” the American god says. He picks the bullet out of his very shiny black hair and then drops it fast, shaking his fingers as if it is hot. Which it is because bullets do get hot. “Don’t you read? American god. Neil Gaiman.” The guy says something in another language and does something.</p><p>            Dean feels different but he’s not sure how.</p><p>            “You can have your d**k back when you behave,” the guy says.</p><p>            Dean thinks, nah. Then still holding the gun, reaches down with his right hand and feels…nothing. “PUT IT BACK!” he screeches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House Guest

            The guy in the Men of Letters library is not Sam. Dean carefully puts down his bags of groceries and pulls his .45.

            “Hi,” the guy says, not looking up. “You must be Dean.” He’s got his feet on the table. Fancy cowboy boots, jeans, a black t-shirt with the arms cut off. He looks Latino, maybe thirty. He’s drinking one of their beers and smoking a cigar.

            “Who are you?” Dean growls, “and where is Sam?”

            “Sam is sleeping and I’m an American god so don’t shoot.” He turns towards Dean and waves a copy of Busty Asian Beauties at him. “What’s with the yellow fever, dude?” He’s a good looking son of a bitch with dark hair in a short pony tail.

            “How did you get in?”

            “You’re not warded for me,” he says. “This place is pretty sweet.”

            Dean shoots him.

            “Fuck,” the American god says. He picks the bullet out of his very shiny black hair and then drops it fast, shaking his fingers as if it is hot. Which it is because bullets do get hot. “Don’t you read? American god. Neil Gaiman.” The guy says something in another language and does something.

            Dean feels different but he’s not sure how.

            “You can have your dick back when you behave,” the guy says.

            Dean thinks, nah. Then still holding the gun, reaches down with his right hand and feels…nothing. No dick, no balls. “PUT IT BACK!” he screeches.

            “Put your groceries away,” the guy says. “Your brother was a lot more polite. Better read, too.”

#

            Sam is asleep. Deeply asleep. He’s flat on his back on his miserable bed in his miserable room and he won’t wake up. “SAM,” Dean says. “Come on!” Sam stirs a little but doesn’t open his eyes. Sam rarely sleeps on his back.

            Great. Dean has no dick or balls and Sam won’t wake up. The American god is in the doorway, one shoulder against the door frame, still drinking beer. His t-shirt has three cans of spray paint on it all labeled ‘Indian War Paint.’ Come to think of it he does look more Indian than he does Latino.

            “What did you do to him?”

            “I did what he wanted,” American god-Indian guy says. He wanders back down the hallway.

            Dean follows him.

            “This place is pretty nifty,” American god-Indian guy observes. “A little dark. Good ventilation, though. You want a beer?”

            “It’s my beer,” Dean says.

            “Suit yourself.”

            “I’m not thrilled about what’s going to happen when I have to pee,” Dean says.

            “You’ll sit down. Women have been doing it since forever.”

            “Fuck you.”

            The guy laughs. “I’ve had my penis stolen before. It sucks but it’s not the end of the world.”

            “What did you do to my brother,” Dean says again.

            “I told you,” the guy says. “I did what he wanted.”

            “He wanted to sleep?”

            “Not exactly.” American god Indian guy sits back down again and puts his cowboy boots back on the library table. It bugs the shit out of Dean which he knows it shouldn’t because he does it to Sam all the time. American god Indian guy snaps his fingers and another cigar appears. “You guys have done some good things. Wendigos taken care of. Stuff like that. Appreciate it. I kept hearing about you. A lot of my people are Christian, you know. Not my bag but hey. Winchester brothers this, Winchester brothers that. Thought I’d see what you were like.”

            “Next time call first,” Dean says. He keeps wanted to rub between his legs.

            “Are you going to sit down?”

            “No,” Dean says. Sitting down is going to feel even weirder.

            This makes American god Indian guy smirk. He says something in some Indian language. “You got your junk back. Sit down.”

            Dean reached tentatively to his crotch even though he can already feel the difference and thank all that’s holy, he does. It feels the right size, too.

            “Your brother threatened me with a gun, too, but like I said, he’s a lot more polite. Asked if I can help with what’s her name.”

            “Amara.”

            “Yeah. Sorry. Can’t. Christianity.” He gets up and wanders to the kitchen. “Sure you don’t want a beer?”

            Fuck. “Sure,” Dean says. “Bring me one.”

            “I wish I could help because you Europeans fucked up everything and we’re gonna pay for that Amara bitch. Plus, like I said, a fuck ton of my people are Christians. But not my jurisdiction. Your brother is not very trusting, like you. Has a real knee jerk reaction to people like me.” The American god Indian guy plunks a bottle on the table and sits back down. “I could have told you guys that Loki is an asshole.”

            Loki. Gabriel. Trickster. Penis jokes. American Indian.

            “I don’t allow dogs in the bunker,” Dean says.

            Coyote smirks. “You’re really one of mine. Sam is so serious. So earnest. Straight A student. You’re a prankster and a drunk.” He toasts Dean. “My kind of guy.”

            “What did you do to him.”

            “What he wanted.”

            “Which is?”

            Coyote looked at the library table and scratched at something invisible with a fingernail. “He wants it to stop.”

            Dean feel a chill. Heat rolls off Coyote, off his brown biceps, off his shining hair, but what he said about Sam… “Wants what to stop.”

            “You want _to put it all down_. Sam walks around with a litany in his head. ‘I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.’ Sound familiar? Because if he stops saying that in his head what he hears is, ‘No. No. Stop. No. Stop. No. Stop.’ So, I did.”

            Coyote’s eyes are feral. How could Dean not have noticed? Because they weren’t before. Before they were human.

            “What are you saying?” Dean says, his voice level and dangerous.

            “Look, he doesn’t like heaven. Or hell. Or purgatory. And that’s about all you people have as options, you know? He doesn’t like dreams.”

            “He asked you for that?” Dean says.

            “Nah, he just asked me for help for Amara. Hey, you want to check out the Kenel Powwow? It’s at the end of May. The Lakota throw a pretty good _wacipi_. That car you drive, it’s pretty nice.”

            “Wake him up,” Dean says.

            Coyote says, “Why would I do that? The guy’s a mess. You should see his spirit. Besides the scars from all that time in Hell, just a couple of weeks ago, that archangel your big God used to keep locked up reached into him and bruised and tore it all up again. Do you people ever look at each other?” Coyote drains his beer. “Fuck this shit. This calls for whiskey.” His boot heels are loud as he crosses the library.

            “Wait,” Dean says. “What are you talking about.”

            Coyote finds a bottle of Jack. His sense of hiding places is unerring. “Basic,” he says, looking at the bottle, “but solid. This place could use women.” He goes into the kitchen and comes back with two glasses and plunks them on the table. “Of course you people never look at each other. Nobody ever trains anybody to look. No shamans.” He pours whiskey in one of the glasses and sest the bottle down. “White people annoy me.”

            “What do you mean about the archangel bruising his spirit?”

            “You can see handprints. Well, not really, archangels don’t actually have hands. But you can see the marks of an archangel on his spirit. His soul. Kind of like if someone tried to strangle you, you’d have bruises around your neck. Like I can see the marks of time travel on you. You shouldn’t do that, by the way. Time travel is bad for people. Fucks them up. Are you going to pour yourself any of this?”

            When had Lucifer gotten his hands on Sam’s soul?

            “My problem,” Coyote says, “is I like to talk too much. I’m a total know it all. Bites me in the ass all the time. As my mother-in-law is prone to remind me.”

            “You’re married?”

            “So many times. Don’t even ask me about child support. Condoms are man’s second best invention.”

            “What’s the first—strike that,” Dean says.

            “Liquor,” Coyote says. “Neither of you assholes ever takes time to heal up from anything. You should see you with that cord of darkness wrapped around your spirit and stretching out of you. It’s cutting off the circulation. Your emotions are all bound up.”

            “Can you cut it?” Dean asks, hope rising inside him.

            “Even if I could, which I can’t, Amara would make me into a little tiny scorch mark. So much power, so many of you guys, Christianity sucks.” He throws back the whiskey in his glass. “And I thought the Aztecs were assholes. Did you know Aztec means ‘weed’? Those bastards were pretty much unkillable until you guys came along.” He pours himself another three fingers. Then he pours three fingers for Dean.

            “So your brother and you are famous. I mean all of us non-Christians loved when your brother fucked over Yahweh’s plan. And now, everything you guys did, the whole putting away Satan and stopping the Apocalypso, losing your Dad, the way you were raised, whatever fucked up thing happened to your brother’s soul in the Cage—like it was all for nothing. Satan walking the Earth again. Must piss you off, right? Or Sam at least since he’s the one who jumped.”

            “No—it, it’s not like that,” Dean says. “Sam doesn’t get pissed like that.” Everything they did, like it was for nothing? Forty years in hell for nothing? Sam’s 180 years in the Cage with Lucifer? All that time hallucinating Lucifer? Soulessness? The Mark of Cain? For nothing?

            Sam had been…good, the last few weeks. Sam had been better than he had been in years. But Dean knows Sam. Knows Sam has to be feeling like the only thing he has ever done that made him halfway worth the air he breaths has just been taken away from him. So Sam is not really good at all and something is going on that Dean isn’t seeing.

            Dean needs to know what was going on. “Is…Sam going to wake up on his own?”

            Coyote shakes his head. “The guy has had enough shit, don’t you think?”

            “What will happen to him?”

            Coyote ponders a moment. “Well, humans have to drink and eat…so nothing good.”

            Dean wants to rage. Wants to grab the asshole around the neck. He swallows and holds his temper. “You’ve got to wake him up,” Dean says. “Look, the Darkness is going to take out everybody, right?”

            Coyote shrugs. “Probably.”

            “But me and Sam, we’ve got kind of a track record for stopping shit.”

            Coyote looks at Dean and sips his whiskey.

            “That cord thing,” Dean says. “I can’t take her out. But Sam still can and I can help him even if I can’t do it myself.”

            “She’s pretty tough.”

            “He fucked over God,” Dean says.

            “True,” Coyote says and smiles blindly. One of his teeth is gold. “Okay. Good talk. Thanks for the drinks. Let me know if you change your mind about the powwow. Love the car.”

            Coyote jogs up the stairs and opens the bunker door.

            “You have to wake him up,” Dean says.

            “He’ll wake up on his own,” Coyote says. The door shuts behind him.

#

            Sam doesn’t wake up for another few hours but he eventually wanders out, plaid shirt open over t-shirt, barefoot, yawning. “What time is it?”

            Dean has tried to wake him up half a dozen times. “Sammy?” he grates out. He throws himself at his brother, wraps him in a hug that staggers them both.

            “Dean?” Sam says and after a moment, hugs him back.

            “God, Sammy. I thought you weren’t going to wake up. Do you remember?”

            Sam frowns. Then he does remember. “Coyote was here…wait, what happened?” His eyes widen. “What did he do to you!”

            “He didn’t do anything to me. It was what he did to you, Sleeping Beauty.”

            “I…how long was I out?”

            “About six hours,” Dean says.

            Sam looks around, tries to figure out what’s wrong, what’s different. “Okay…and that’s bad because?”

            “It was what you wanted,” Dean says. He knows he’s being unfair but at this moment he finds he’s furious. Sam wants to give up. To quit. To sleep forever.

            “I want a nap?” Sam says. He looks so bewildered. “Actually I think what I want is coffee.”

            Of course because he’s drinking two, sometimes three pots a day which is so far past wrong. What else is he doing? “Are you taking anything?” Dean asks.

            “What?” Sam says, “no!” and it’s his caught red handed total denial fake innocent ‘what no’.

            Dean takes off for Sam’s room and Sam takes off after him yelling, “DEAN! STOP! STAY OUT OF MY ROOM!”

            The question is duffle or bathroom and Dean’s money is on duffle which is where he finds a prescription bottle full of something called Zenzedi. “What’s this?”

            “Dean,” Sam says, embarrassed, exasperated.

            “What is it?”

            “It’s for…concentration.”

            Dean laughs. “Right. Because you’ve EVER had trouble concentrating. What is it? Speed?”

            “They give it to people with ADD.”

            “ADD.”

            “It helps me research.”

            “Is this why you’re so happy these days?” Dean says. “In such a good mood?” Sam gives up. He just turns and walks away. Dean wants to fight. Wants to swing. Wants to yell. He follows Sam to the library where Sam finds his stack of books and his notes. He sits down, turns on the light and pulls a book towards him.

            “What are you doing?” Dean says.

            “What does it look like I’m doing?” Sam says.

            “It looks like you’re avoiding talking about this.” Dean slams the prescription bottle down on the library table.

            “Well, Coyote didn’t work out so I’m looking for a Hand of God,” Sam says. “I figure I got several hours of uninterrupted sleep so I should capitalize on them.”

            “Did you _call_ Coyote?” Dean asks.

            “No,” Sam says. “Like you, he just shows up and tells me what a lousy specimen of humanity I am without even being asked.”

            “Well he sure sang your praises while you were sleeping,” Dean said. “Told me how smart you were, how polite you were, how you figured out who he was. How you read some book he was in.”

            “While I was awake he told me I was a stick in the mud and I needed to get out more. And then he thought I was so much fun he put me to sleep and waited for you.” Sam leans his elbows on the library table and rubs his eyes. “Fucking tricksters.”

            Dean thought, I’m screwing this up. He went into the kitchen. His stomach was sour from beer and whiskey. He opened the refrigerator and stared. He’d brought home sandwich stuff so he decided to make grilled cheese and tomato soup. No rice. No one was sick. He fried the grilled cheese and heated up the soup, brewed a pot of coffee. By the time he brought it out, Sam really was lost in the book.

            “Sam,” he said and put the stuff next to him. “Eat.”

            Sam looked up.

            He went and got his own. “Coyote said you wanted everything to stop. That’s why he put you to sleep.” Sam had already taken a bite out of his grilled cheese. He leaned back in his chair, considering this. “He said you walk around thinking ‘I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay’ all the time because underneath that you’re thinking ‘no stop no stop no stop’. He said you really want everything to stop so he gave you what you wanted. I tried to wake you up but I couldn’t. He said no dreams, nothing. Just sleep.”

            Sam made a little involuntary head shake. “That’s not…I mean, I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

            “He also said you had marks like bruises all over your soul. From Lucifer.”

            Sam looked away.

            “When did Lucifer get hold of your soul, Sam?”

            “When you were in the past,” Sam said. “I thought it was Cas.”

            The bunker felt big. Full of spaces, corridors, rooms where anything could be hiding. They had put up the sigils that Delphine had used but Dean couldn’t help wondering if they were enough, if they had put them in the right places.

            “Why didn’t you tell me?” Dean asked.

            Sam didn’t answer. He took a spoon full of soup.

            “We said no secrets,” Dean said.

            “I asked you if you wanted to talk about what happened on the sub,” Sam said. “You said no.”

            “This is different,” Dean said. “I wasn’t hurt.”

            Sam looked at him in a way that said he didn’t agree. Swallowed. “Okay,” he said and his face had gone that way it did when he felt like he deserved whatever Dean was demanding. He took a deep breath. “Um, Cas has pretty small hands, you know?” Dean didn’t know what this had to do with anything and then remembered Cas reaching into Sam to see if he had a soul. “It’s…well, I know that when people are raped it’s different for them than other injuries but for me it really isn’t anymore because it’s physical. You know what I mean, right?”

            Dean felt as if he was in way too deep, too fast.

            Sam continued, almost as if he was talking to himself. “Once you’ve had someone’s hands up inside your rib cage, rooting around somewhere in the vicinity of your heart and you can’t die, you have a whole different standard.”

            Dean got it now. At least some of it. Alastair had done something to just about every version of opening possible.

            “So,” Sam said, “I’ve taken it up the ass from Lucifer, from demons, from hunters and I’d be just as happy if it was never forced on me again but it’s just physical torture.” He shrugged. “I’m tired of pain. Sometimes I think I can’t face another moment of it but then something happens and it’s not as bad as I thought it would be, I guess. When something touches my soul, that’s different. When I first started getting taken apart in the Cage, I would feel pain but those nerves on the inside of my body, I didn’t know them so it was awhile before my brain kind of mapped them, you know?”

            Dean did know. The human body didn’t have much experience with things touching your insides—didn’t know where your kidneys, or the coils of your small intestines were. It took awhile before it ‘learned’ the location of the pain when Alastair played the insides of your ribcage like a marimba.

            “It took a long time to learn when Lucifer was doing things to my soul. Possession makes me feel terrible. It makes me feel the way I imagine most people feel when…when Lucifer touches my soul, that doesn’t feel like physical torture. I feel violated. I don’t really want to talk about it. So I didn’t say anything about it. Cas stopped it. He fought back Lucifer. To save me.”

            Dean knew he had made a mistake. He thought maybe he needed to know this but not this way.

            “It wasn’t about keeping secrets, Dean,” Sam said. “I’m just doing the best I can. Sorry. I know that wasn’t very coherent.”

            After a long moment of silence Sam said, “It’s good grilled cheese," and Dean realized it looked as if he was staring at Sam’s sandwich.

            “Good,” Dean said, gruff. He reached out and grabbed the prescription bottle. “Don’t take this stuff.”

            “Sure,” Sam said. “Whatever. I’m okay.”

            _I'm okay._

 

Fin


End file.
